by C. R. May
Eofer sensed Hemming flinch at his side. Reaching forward to recharge the cups he shook his head sadly. ‘We can’t stay with you if you take the southern route. We have been entrusted with carrying a treasure to Anglia by King Eomær himself, something of great value to the English folk. Tell me,’ he said. ‘Why do you think that that is the best way to go?’
The ship thegns exchanged a look of surprise. ‘Because these cnar were the last ones available for charter, Eofer,’ Leofwine answered. ‘Hence they are generally unseaworthy, manned by cutthroats, and no doubt tarrying to give their friends time to arrange an ambush when we reach the islands off the coast. I think that the ship which ran for shore today will very soon be joined by others.’ He looked pleadingly at the eorle. ‘If you go Eofer, I doubt that we will get many ships through to Anglia.’
Eofer nodded thoughtfully as Leofwine reeled off the list of problems facing the little fleet. ‘I disagree,’ he said finally as the ship thegn finished and sat back with a sigh. ‘Even if you get the majority of the ships past the Ælmere, you will still have to fight off the pirates based at the mouth of the River Rin and then fight off the Salian Franks. The ships that survive that, and the crossing to Britannia, will find themselves off the coast of Cent. Now, I don’t know how much you boys in Anglia know about recent events in Juteland, but we have just invaded the homeland and sacrificed their king to the gods. I doubt,’ he said, with a raised brow. ‘That the Jutes of Cent will be too welcoming when you pitch up in their waters.’
Hemming made a fist, belching softly as he pushed it into his belly. ‘Don’t forget the Saxons north of the Tamesis, lord,’ he added: ‘tough lot, those boys.’
Eofer spread his hands. ‘How long do you think that it will take to get to Anglia at the rate you have been travelling? A month? Two?’ He shook his head as the scipthegns quietened. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that we only really have one option open to us, and that is to make the crossing as direct as possible. We may lose a ship here and there to Gymir’s hall, but every mile travelled will take you further from danger, not deeper into it.’ He shot them a smile of encouragement. ‘I doubt that our new friends fancy trying to out sail an English scegth in a fat bellied cnar. Keep your station on the flanks and I will sweep the rear. What do you say? Let’s get these people to their new homeland, before more end up as gull food.’
‘Ah,’ Sæward smiled, ‘the dawn chorus; I never tire of it.’
Eofer wrinkled his brow as he answered his steersman. ‘Yes, that is one of the disadvantages to bringing up the rear. Don’t get too close, if this wind backs suddenly we could end up wearing some of it.’
Finn had the helm, and the youth smiled alongside the pair as they looked out beyond the prow. Eofer dug his duguth in the ribs as he pointed out the bulk of Hemming on the ship ahead. ‘I’ll bet Thrush is enjoying that.’
The sun had barely climbed into the sky to the East and they were already underway. As the portly hulls of the cnar rolled in the swell, the lines of pale arses had quickly been replaced by rows of pale faces as the English settlers emptied first their bowels and then their stomachs into the choppy waters alongside.
‘At least it means that there is plenty of food to go around,’ he snorted, ‘sick people don’t tend to eat much.’ Sæward chuckled at the knots of bodies lining the wales of the fleet as he answered his lord. ‘And it took their minds off the fact that they were out of sight of land, They probably wished that they had been dead for most of the voyage!’
After a hesitant start, the previous few days had gone well. The unwelcome news that they were to abandon the coastal route and strike out across the wastes of the German Sea had been greeted with obvious dismay and outright hostility by many of the Frisian crews. Ælfeah’s idea that the warriors which could be spared by the three English warships be distributed between the transports had been a complete success, and the sullen ships’ crews had finally bowed to the inevitable and knuckled down to work. Immediately the speed had increased and they had made more progress that first day than they had in the whole of the previous week’s sailing. Denied the opportunity to make for a friendly shore, the shipmasters had plainly decided that the quicker they could complete the crossing, the sooner they would be paid, the sooner they were shot of a boatful of landsmen, the sooner they could scrub the decks and strakes clean of shit and puke. Now the coastline of Anglia was a sage coloured line on the western horizon, and every man, woman and child, Engle or Frisian, willed the final miles away.
Within the hour the coastline was a hedge of spears as the gorse of the coastal heathland gave way to tree capped headlands. Ælfeah had dropped back from his place out to steerbord of the little fleet as they put their prows to the South, and ribald comments flew between the ships as the Hildstapa bore away, making for deeper water as she formed up on the Grægwulf. By midday the sun shone brightly from an indigo sky, and the crew of the Skua watched with amusement as children on the ships ahead ran excitedly from beam to beam as the steel grey heads of seals bobbed alongside as if in welcome.
An arm of land, hummocky with grassy dunes, ushered the flotilla towards the entrance to the great bay which received the waters of the Rivers Yarne and Wahenhe as the shipwright Osric sidled up to Eofer with a smile. ‘I thank you, lord,’ he said, ‘for safely transporting myself and those close to me to the new country.’ He smiled again and ran his hand along the wale of the Skua. ‘And in such a fine ship too!’
Eofer clapped him on the shoulder, and Osric flushed at his reply. ‘There is no finer ship on Middle-earth,’ he said. ‘I was given the honour of felling the tree from which it was made by the master shipwright himself. It was a great day, back in the old country. I shall never forget it.’
Osric cleared his throat, the emotion of their safe arrival threatening to get the better of him. As the oars dipped and fell and the ship edged into the bay, the great ramparts of the Roman fort at Cnobheresburh drew wonderstruck eyes to the south-west. ‘I made this lord, for the new bairn. I hope that you consider it a worthy gift, whether the child is a boy or a shield maiden.’ He produced a wooden sword from behind his back and Eofer took it with delight. ‘It’s made from the same tree as the Skua,’ he said proudly. ‘We kept a few of the better offcuts with this in mind.’ He leaned in as Eofer turned the sword in his hand. ‘I tried to copy your own sword, lord. I chose this piece because the pattern in the grain resembles that on your own blade,’ he said, his confidence growing as he realised that his gift had been well received. ‘I had to do my best with the hilt,’ he whistled softly, as he stole a glance at the original which hung at Eofer’s side. The thegn had retrieved the blade from the burial mound of his grandfather, Ælfgar, and the gold and garnet studded handle had lent Gleaming its name. ‘I managed to find a few shards of red glass to fit into the cells instead of garnets.’ He shot Eofer a lopsided smile. ‘Not too many garnets laying around in shipyards, lord. Nor gold,’ he pointed out with a chuckle. ‘That there is paint.’
Astrid had come up, and Eofer showed her the replica as Osric beamed with pride. ‘That is lovely, Osric,’ she said. ‘You have a skill with wood, you should use it more often.’ They laughed at the joke as Osric called one of his men across. Slipping an item from a woollen sack the man produced a small shield with a flourish. ‘This goes with it, lord,’ Osric said as his man dipped his head and backed away. ‘It’s made from the same wood. The lads made it in their spare time and got one of the artisans in the yard to paint on the front the picture from your flag thingy. ‘It is called a hildbeacn,’ Eofer snorted in reply, ‘a war beacon,’ Eofer smiled as he examined the boards, the burning hart emblem bringing the events of that night flashing back into his mind. It had been the night that his previous scegth, Fælcen, had carried him to war for the final time and he recalled his last glimpse of her, the flames which consumed the little ship mast high, with a wan smile. Later that night, Heorot, the hall of the king of Danes had also met a fiery end, and the image of that
attack had been woven by Astrid and Editha into a new war banner for their lord.
Sæward took the steering oar from Finn as the ship entered the calm of the bay. A boat came out from the anchorage, coots and moorhens scattering before it as the oars rose and fell in time, and the men on the Skua lined the wale, watching as the Grægwulf and Hildstapa handed over their charges to the port reeve and stood off to the North. The Skua came about, clearing away as the cnar were shepherded to their berths. Hemming was waving frantically from the stern of a trader and Sæward glanced his way. ‘We had better pick him up, lord; and the others.’
Eofer waved back at his weorthman with a smirk. ‘No,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye as he recalled his duguth’s waggishness the night they had joined the little fleet. ‘Let’s not.’ They all shared a laugh at Hemming’s crestfallen expression as the ship bore away with lazy strokes of the oars; soon they were up alongside the others, and Ælfeah came to the side as a rope was tossed. Leofwine was already aboard, and the scipthegn raised a cup to the eorle as the celebrations began. As the crews began to mingle and the ale began to flow, Ælfeah put an arm around Eofer and turned him towards the South. Beyond a reedy spit of land, hundreds of warships lay at anchor, the curving prows ending abruptly where the beast head had been removed and safely stowed away lest they frighten the land spirits of their homeland.
Eofer’s heart swelled with pride as his eyes drank in the sight, and he recalled his speech the night in eorthdraca as, giddig with symbol ale, he had stared into the glowing eye of a god and spoken:
‘Allfather, guide our people to the West. Let us replace the weeds with a hardier seed. Let us grow strong there together, gods and folk.’
26
‘Well, spit it out, is it or isn’t it?’ Eofer craned his neck, the corners of his mouth curling up as Hræfen grinned down at him. ‘Yes, I am sure now, lord. It is Wulf, I would recognise that handsome smile anywhere.’ Eofer lowered his gaze to discover that his own smile had been replicated on a score of faces around him. ‘Well, don’t stop work now,’ he chided them. ‘We will need to get this roofed if it is to shelter a newborn.’ As the smiling workmen bent their backs, Eofer crossed to Hemming. ‘It must be a boy if Wulf is smiling.’ Spearhafoc was nearby, and the Briton glanced up as she stripped another hazel branch of its side shoots. ‘It is a boy, lord. I could have told you that before your wife left for Geatland.’ Eofer and Hemming shared a look as the woman lopped another twig with the blade of her knife and tossed it aside. ‘But that was months ago,’ he said in wonder. ‘How could you have known then?’ She shrugged as she reached across to the pile of hazel at her side, her eyes flashing her annoyance at Rand as the youth dumped yet another load at her side. ‘Her belly, lord,’ she said finally as another trimmed piece landed on the pile before her. ‘It stuck out.’
Eofer and Hemming exchanged a look of bemusement. ‘Well, yes. We may be men, but we do understand where bairns come from.’ She shook her head in exasperation, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. ‘No lord,’ she explained with a patience which was so unusual in the youth that the pair had to stifle a laugh. ‘Her belly stuck out, you know, at the front. Everyone knows that bellies stick straight out when it is a boy and wrap around when the mother is carrying a girl.’ She sighed at their ignorance, giving them a pitying shake of the head as she plucked the next withy from the pile and set to with the blade. Eofer raised a brow, the girl shooting them a parting scowl at his retort. ‘Let’s go and see if our witch is right, Thrush.’
The pair walked towards the dusty track as they waited for Eofer’s brother to arrive with the hoped for good news. Eahlswith, King Eomær’s cwen, had insisted that Astrid stay with the royal party for the birth. Artisans had been sent on ahead as soon as the decision to resettle the king and his family in Anglia had been taken at the symbel the previous autumn, and the new hall had risen at Theodford in time to welcome the king and his family upon their arrival in the new kingdom. With Astrid safe and comfortable, Eofer and the men of his hearth troop had pushed on to begin the task of raising his own hall during the long days of summer. Osric and his gang had offered to construct the oak frame before they started work on the new boat sheds at Yarnemutha, and the finishing pieces were already slotting into place as news of the birth arrived.
They gained the track and the pair paused as they waited, sweeping their gaze over the lands to the South. ‘She is still miserable, lord. Do you think that it is something to do with the bairn?’ Eofer raised a brow. ‘Spearhafoc? No!’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘She ran away from that life, remember? Why should she care about bairns?’
‘She’s been like this for weeks now, ever since we arrived in Anglia, so it can’t be the other thing.’
‘What other thing?’
‘You know,’ Hemming said, narrowing his eyes and jerking his head towards his belly, ‘the other thing.’
Eofer laughed as he began to understand what his weorthman was suggesting. He had watched the giant kill men with his bare hands and eviscerate a horse with a single sweep of his sword but he couldn’t bring himself to mention “the other thing” by name.
‘No,’ he replied with all the authority of a married man. ‘She has no spots on her face, or anywhere else I am guessing. They always get spotty when “the other thing” is happening. Besides, it only lasts a week and this has been going on for months.’
‘Well, if she is like this normally lord,’ Hemming replied with a frown. ‘I will make sure that I am not around when the other thing does happen.’
They craned their heads to the West but the horsemen were still out of sight. The hall stood at the western end of a long ridge and the road dipped down and rounded a bend as it entered the trees there.
‘I still say that we should have built the hall further away, lord,’ Hemming said. ‘Any trouble and we will have no warning at all.’ He turned and grimaced. ‘We both know how hall burnings end up for those trapped inside.’
Eofer thought as he took in the lands of the Wulfings which lay spread out before him. The ridge on which he had chosen to build his hall overlooked the wide grassy wetlands which straddled the mouth of the River Aldu. It marked the southern boundary of the new estate which he had been gifted by a grateful king, from its source deep inland, all the way to the German Sea only a few miles to the East. With the arrival of the English king and his folk, the Wulfing settlements centred on Rendilsham had become little more than an enclave, hemmed in by Eofer’s lands and those of the English settlers at Gippeswic in the South. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘this place is perfect. The Wulfings are not so strong that they can hope to attack Anglia without inviting annihilation, and even if they were, distance would not save us. Jarl Wictgils thought himself safe deep inside Juteland but we burned him out just the same. Placing my hall here,’ he explained patiently, ‘says to the people across the river, Look, here we are. The Engles live here now and always will.’
Hemming nodded as he looked around. ‘It is a fine place, Eofer. With the Skua beached at the foot of the hill you have everything that Cerdic offered last year and more.’ His face suddenly broke into a smile as he remembered why they were waiting at the roadside. ‘So, as our less than friendly witch is so confident that the bairn is a boy what’s the name to be, Wonred?’
Eofer shook his head. ‘That would honour the memory of my father, maybe next time,’ he smiled. ‘No, I decided that the boy will be called Ælfgar after my grandfather. You saw the splendour of his burial chamber with your own eyes Thrush, and heard the tales of his deeds in battle against the Jutes and Myrgings. He was held in high regard, his name deserves to live on within the family. Besides, I wield his sword, it seems like a small thing to receive such a gift.’
The sound of horsemen finally reached them from the West, and they turned together as the first riders hove into view. Wulf rode at the head of the column, and Eofer looked on as his brother raised an arm in greeting, coming on in a smear of dust. Soon t
hey were reining in before the pair, and Wulf slid from the saddle to embrace his brother. ‘Astrid is fine and you have another son,’ he said with a grin. ‘Ugly little bastard, looks like his father!’
A rumble of laughter came from the smiling horsemen as Eofer returned the grin. ‘Yes, it’s a family trait.’
Wulf placed his hands on his hips as he turned and stared away to the South. The sun was lowering in the West and the Aldu was a silver belt on a sark of green. ‘So, this is Snæpe.’ He turned back with a frown. ‘A bit close to the wolf men, isn’t it?’
Eofer snorted. ‘It’s just fine, the Wulfings will behave if they want to keep their land. Not only does it allow me to control the road junction and river crossing here and collect my dues, but I can walk to my ship whenever I feel the urge to fill my lungs with salty air.’ He cocked his head. ‘Come and see the hall.’ They walked across, and Eofer explained the goings-on as Finn appeared with a tray of drinks. ‘Osric and his lads are nearly finished erecting the frame. We are doing the panelling ourselves and I have a thatcher down there in the estuary harvesting the reed beds for the roofing material. That should be on within the week.’
